


Give Us A Little Love

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Bondage, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Come Shot, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Will Tame The Wolves, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Name-Calling, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: An entire winter cooped up with the wolves. What’s a bard to do but… take care of them, and teach them that love and pleasure and submission are delights to treasure?In this fic, Jaskier goes to Kaer Morhen for his first winter. He and Geralt are in an established d/s relationship, where Geralt is his primary. When he finds such sweet men, eager for affection and attention, though -- well, someone has to take charge. And Geralt is more than happy to help him tame the wolves.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Comments: 174
Kudos: 1180
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Part One

It’s a unique experience, when Jaskier and Geralt arrive at Kaer Morhen for their first winter together. Geralt enters to ensure that there will be no daggers hurled at Jaskier, seeking Vesemir’s permission for his lover to spend the winter, and once granted cautious access, the bard steps inside too. The other wolves aren’t present, not initially, but upon hearing the conversation and the noise of the front door, they filter in – first Eskel, who greets Geralt with a firm, affectionate hug, and then Lambert, who leans against a pillar of stone and absolutely _leers_ at Jaskier.

But the bard is far from deterred. In fact, the other three Witchers note the absence of a particular scent upon him. Sure, there’s the lingering rosewater from his last bath, and the sweat from the climb up the mountain, and the overpowering smell of one of their own – Geralt – but there’s no _fear_. There’s not even the cloying tickle of intimidation. Jaskier smells like enthusiasm and unbridled joy and Lambert is annoyed that his mere presence has not reduced the bard to a quivering mass on the floor. He leaves, his upper lip curled.

It’s rare to catch Vesemir off guard, but Jaskier, he manages it. He takes up both of the eldest Witcher’s hands and tells him how _truly_ honoured he is to be allowed to stay in a castle of wolves, how he has no intentions of playing at ‘guest’, prepared to pitch in where he can to help, and finally, that he’s brought a gift. Jaskier thinks it’s customary to bring presents when staying at another noble’s estate, and although Vesemir is far removed from anything approaching courtly, the bard considers him royalty. And he’s more than aware of Geralt’s unwavering respect for the man. He produces a package from his pack, carefully wrapped to endure the journey, and hands it to the eldest Witcher.

As far as Geralt and Eskel can tell, it’s some kind of fungus. They examine it curiously for a moment, before returning to a low discussion. Vesemir, though. He stares at the gift.

“Where...?” Is all he can manage.

“Geralt says you have a great interest in alchemy, and herbalism. I consulted with a mage in Novigrad, and had it sourced for you. I’m afraid I can’t claim the level of your knowledge, but I _believe_ it to be a rare reagent.” Jaskier’s eyes are solemn. “I hope it’s a suitable gift, because I also have—”

“Suitable?” Vesemir scoffs; for the smallest moment, Jaskier has doubts. But then the older man is grinning. “I’ll be busy for _months_ with this, bard. I thank you for your thoughtfulness.” He raises his chin. “But don’t believe that my trust can be bought. You are under Geralt’s care, not mine.”

Jaskier nods his understanding, but he can’t help but notice how quickly the patriarchal figure excuses himself to his apothecary. He turns to the remaining two men; Eskel is regarding him cautiously. Geralt slings one massive arm over the bard’s shoulders, casually adoring.

“You have a mushroom for me, too, bard?” Eskel asks sarcastically, and Geralt makes the smallest sound.

“Geralt was right about you.” Jaskier observes, his summer-blue eyes appraising. “You _are_ handsome.”

Eskel had clearly been prepared for a jab at his scarring, or the sense of magic chaos that others can sometimes pick up upon, or _anything_ but a compliment. His eyes go wide, he clears his throat, and mutters something about needing to see Lambert.

As he vanishes up the stairs, and Geralt leans down to nuzzle his beloved bard, Jaskier can’t help but thrill at the potential that stretches before him; an _entire winter_ with wolves.

\---------------

“This is your room? Where you grew up?” Jaskier asks, depositing one of his bags down. The large area features a bed, piled heavy with cured furs, and honestly, not much else.

“Do you like it?” Geralt questions, and Jaskier can sense the smallest hint of nervousness in the Witcher. He takes a moment to look – to _really_ look at the space around him.

Yes, the shelves are mostly bare, but the few trinkets there must be of great import. There’s a small statuette of a horse. A couple of books; one is about monsters, and the other has a spine too faded to make out the lettering. A heavy chest of drawers hosts a wash basin and a mirror. Jaskier notes other things, too; there’s notches in one of the pillars of stone. A growth chart. There’s carvings on the posts of the large bed; they’re intricate and careful, geometric. The hearth is clean, albeit dusty. He grins.

“It’s you.” He muses.

“What do you mean?” Geralt’s voice is guarded.

“Well, at first, it’s striking. Imposing. There’s a beauty in the harshness of the place, but then...” He runs fingers across a carving in the stone, initials; G + E. Old friends, old memories. “When you look closer, there’s so much more to appreciate. I _love_ it.”

Before he can register what’s happening, Geralt has crossed the room to sweep him up in his arms in a fierce embrace. Jaskier tangles his fingers in the snow of his lover’s hair, and kisses just below his ear. “Thank you,” Geralt whispers, “ _Thank you_ for coming to my home.”

“Darling,” Jaskier sighs, “Oh, my love. You’ve no idea how delighted I am to be here.”

“I am sorry, for my brothers. They are... they can be difficult.” Geralt pulls back, fondly brushing the bard’s fringe from his eyes.

“You needn’t worry, love.” Jaskier grins, “Good things to those who wait, remember?” He taps a finger on his chin, as if trying to remember something of import. “Speaking of which – I recall promising you something on the way up here, hmmm. I just can’t for _the life_ of me...”

Geralt’s eyes go all soft and needy, just as Jaskier anticipated. He has to fight the smile that wants to curve on his lips. “You said that if we made it here before dark today, that you’d...” The Witcher’s words spill out with enthusiasm, and trail off shyly.

“That I’d do what?” He’s being a bit cruel, but oh, it’s all part of the foreplay.

“ _Fuck me._ ” Geralt whispers, knowing he has to vocalise what he wants by now. “F-fuck me until I’m, I’m full and dripping a-and _sated_. That’s what—those are the words you said.”

“Ah.” Jaskier bends down to his pack, rummaging around – as if he doesn’t know that the oil is in the front pocket – “I _do_ recall something to that effect, yes. Would you still like that, my darling?”

“Yes.” Geralt accepts, a little too hastily, but judging by the tenting of his breeches, he doesn’t care how eager he sounds. “Please.”

“Good boy.” The bard enthuses, which makes his lover whimper audibly. “Strip down for me and get on the bed whilst I start a fire, you sexy creature.”

Geralt nearly trips over his own boots in his rush to comply.

\---------------

They’re a little late to dinner, the gong to announce the meal long-sounded by the time they emerge from the fuck-nest of furs, and there’s no hiding their activity – even if they re-dress warmly and brush their hair down. Kaer Morhen has no secrets, at least not when it comes to Witchers and their activities. Vesemir doesn’t seem to care, tearing meat off the leg of a turkey, but both Eskel and Lambert watch Geralt and Jaskier take their seats with steady eyes.

“So,” Lambert says, reaching for more bread, “Is he costing you much? Renting a whore for the entire winter. Must be pricey.”

Geralt chokes on the wine he was sipping, but Jaskier grins. “More than you’d make on The Path in a year, you crude boy.” He touches the youngest Witcher’s arm as he speaks, and does not miss the slight shiver that runs across the man’s flesh. _Just as Geralt was,_ Jaskier thinks. Starved for touch. For love. He doesn’t linger longer than he needs to, grabbing food to put on his plate.

“He’s a bard, not a prostitute.” Eskel’s voice is fairly monotone, and Geralt shoots his old friend a half-smile. “Dresses like one, though.”

“You’d look luscious in purple, Eskel.” Jaskier muses, “I might have some fabric, actually... to accent a pair of breeches. Gold and purple. Mmm, divine.”

Eskel tries to hide the blush that sneaks across his cheeks into his wine cup, but Jaskier notices. Rarely complimented – Eskel more so than Lambert, the bard thinks – and he _knows_ where a lack of verbal affection leads. He feels a bit like he’s studying the interactions of wild animals, and it’s somehow thrilling.

“Maybe you could keep it down a little.” Lambert grouches. Jaskier cannot scent him, but he knows jealousy when he sees it. “You’d best not be so loud all winter, for fuck’s sake.”

Geralt grunts, frowning, but again, Jaskier is the one to speak. “Door’s open, Lambert, gorgeous thing. Whoever said you weren’t invited to the party, hm?”

Vesemir drops the turkey bone with a clatter, and mutters some excuse about needing to see to his boiling reagents. Jaskier understands, and feels a little sorry – but he wasn’t the one to initiate foreplay at the dinner table. No, Eskel and Lambert are both guilty. And they’re both starting to realise that perhaps they’ve underestimated the lovely lark that Geralt brought in to stay warm for the winter.

“Wouldn’t... _party._ Sounds...” Lambert’s voice is lame, and he drinks down his wine in large gulps, sulky. Geralt can smell the change, though; the arousal, spicy and masculine.

“I’m simply a guest here.” Jaskier impresses, “I cannot tell you strong, _clever_ men where to walk in your own fortress. Gods above! I’d never be so rude.” The weight of his river-clear gaze falls upon Eskel, who squirms. “And Geralt’s bed is so _very large_.”

Geralt shoots his bard a look beneath his lashes, something dangerous and sultry. He likes where this is leading. And he likes that it’s working. But still, it’ll be a time before either of the other wolves descend; they’re proud, stubborn.

Luckily, Jaskier is quite skilled at getting what he wants, and getting it fast.

\---------------

“You have such a perfect mouth, my love,” Jaskier moans, legs spread sluttily as he sprawls on the sofa in the communal living area. It’s early, and it would seem that no one else is up. Geralt is between his bard’s knees, sucking his cock enthusiastically, and the sounds that spill from Jaskier’s open lips are his reward. His left hand is cupping his lover’s balls, rubbing pressure on the sweet spot behind them; his right is circled around his own cock, frantically stroking.

“Fu _uuck_.” Jaskier hisses, “Gods, baby, you’re _so good_ on your knees for me. _Hnnf,_ such a fuckin’ good mouth, so damn talented.” He hears Geralt’s groan around the base of his dick, and bucks his hips up. “Fuck, yes. You wanna make me come? Wanna be a good boy— _nngh_ —and swallow my load, huh?”

He gets his answer in a rather obvious way; Geralt, mind-fucked by Jaskier’s crooning words, spills in frantic, thick stripes on the stone beneath him, shuddering in climax. The visual sets Jaskier off, and he pulls Geralt’s hair tight in a yank as he holds his throbbing cock as far as possible down the Witcher’s throat, his orgasm pulsing through him in delicious bursts as he gasps. Geralt is greedy with his seed, unwilling to spill a drop; he suckles and swallows until Jaskier is flinching sensitively, and then he withdraws. He’s all wild of eye, and flushed, swollen lips.

“Hot.” Jaskier’s voice is gritty, “So hot, my man. You’re _incredible_.”

Sometimes it’s hard for the bard to consider Geralt’s enthusiasm for praise as _kinky,_ because he means every single word he says. Perhaps that’s why it hits the Witcher so hard. Geralt rises off the floor, settles on the couch, and pulls Jaskier into a cuddle.

“I love you.” The larger man rumbles, and Jaskier arches up to smooch his cleft chin.

“And I you.” He affirms.

From the kitchen shadows, Lambert is trembling with the effort to stay silent. He watches for a moment longer, before retreating. Geralt knew he was there the whole time; the youngest Witcher has never been a master of stealth.

He loves the scent of desire and curiosity the man leaves in his wake.

\---------------

Both Eskel and Lambert are staring as Jaskier washes Geralt’s hair.

The bathing area is huge, communal, and kept supplied by a flow of water that some clever architect built into the side of the wall. It’s fed by a mountain stream, and therefore the inlet needs to be constantly uncovered due to the ice that freezes over, but it’s nothing four Witchers can’t handle. Eskel is the best at heating bathwater; his signs are the strongest, and he can have a tub deliciously steamy in seconds. It’s normal for Witchers to share a tub, reclining in the huge stone basin, but it’s different when there’s an adoring human present.

Of course, Lambert and Eskel _could_ wait to bathe. They could fill the tub later and enjoy a solitary soak. But they both have some half-plausible excuse about having no time later, due to stable duty, or in Lambert’s case, ‘none of your business, Geralt’.

Jaskier knows when he has an audience. He is a bard, after all. And he’s just darling at playing a part. Geralt might consider him sneaky, if he wasn’t the one reaping the benefits. As Jaskier’s strong, diligent fingers massage his scalp, the white Witcher moans, leaning trustingly into his bard’s care, his eyes closed. Jaskier coos little loving words, rinsing the suds, combing his love’s hair until it’s sleek and tangle-free.

“Eskel, gorgeous,” Jaskier says, and the man perks up, “Is your fringe getting a bit long? I’d be happy to trim it.”

“Yeah, it’s—” Eskel frowns at the enthusiasm in his own voice, and runs a large hand through his hair. “It could use a cut. I s’pose. I _can_ do it myself though.”

“Remember that time he used an upturned bowl, Geralt?” Lambert interjects, and both Witchers bark out laughter at Eskel’s expense. The scarred man glowers; it’s enough to spur him on to accept Jaskier’s offer.

“Fine.” He huffs, “But be quick about it, bard.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt’s stubbly cheek, and motions for the two men to change places. He’s not shy at all about watching the two wolves as they rise, all dripping muscle and flushed skin; he’s intrigued to see that Eskel is half-hard, but he doesn’t linger long with the low gaze. He can tell it’s already far out of the man’s comfort zone to have someone else tend to his hair.

“I’m just going to wash it first.” Jaskier says, placing his warm hands on Eskel’s shoulders. The other man instantly stiffens at the touch, but he nods wordlessly. Slowly, the bard runs his lute-string calloused fingertips through the dark flick of hair, teasing any knots free, and then he dips a cup into the bath, wetting it. He chooses a different bottle from his little collection, and the subtle scent of mint mingles in the steamy air.

Eskel soon learns why Geralt was moaning. He relaxes almost immediately under Jaskier’s fingertips, his breath catching. He’s unaware he’s even leaning back until he brushes against the bard’s chest-hair, and then he jerks forward, clearing his throat.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispers, “It’s okay. Relax for me, darling.”

Eskel doesn’t know how. _Relax_ isn’t a word that Witchers often use – not unless meditating – and that’s a very different kind of relaxation. Letting one’s guard down for the sake of simple pleasure? Ridiculous. It’s soft, and stupid, and Eskel wants to rail against it – until he feels Jaskier’s kneading hands again, and then all argument leaves him. By the time the bard is rinsing the suds clean, he has a dozy Witcher reclining against his chest, practically purring.

Jaskier thinks Eskel is perfectly handsome, but he suspects strongly that the Witcher doesn’t feel the same way about himself. Not with the scars. Perhaps he visits brothels less often than Lambert. Perhaps he doesn’t visit them at all. It makes perfect sense that Eskel melts under the most simple of physical attention, in a place that he feels safe – in his home, with his pack.

Eskel opens one drowsy eye to regard Geralt, who is watching with a sly smirk on his annoyingly divine features. He also notes the movement of the water; beneath it, the White Wolf is stroking his cock, lazy. It’s not uncommon for any of them to pleasure themselves openly, or even borrow one another’s mouth on occasion, but it’s usually hurried and frantic, post-sparring, or just before bed. This feels different. And Eskel realises he’s completely hard, too.

The careful snip of Jaskier’s sharp scissors captures his attention briefly, before he frowns at Geralt. “Are you wanking over my haircut?”

Geralt is all gleaming smile, predatory. “You look hot, pressed up against Jaskier like that.”

Eskel feels the bard’s cock at the small of his back twitch in interest, and he’s forced to suppress a moan. He’s done a lot of things with Geralt – but he’s never been called _hot._ “Shut up.” He grouses, hoping that the heat of the bath will excuse the blush on his cheeks.

The scent of arousal lacing the steam is too much for Lambert to ignore, too. He squeezes himself, one knee up, hoping to feign nonchalance. Jaskier continues to cut attentively at Eskel’s locks, catching the wet hair and dropping it out of the bath to deal with later, humming gently. Every so often, he shifts, rocking his hard cock between Eskel’s cheeks, and _fuck_ , the Witcher thinks desperately, _he can’t keep doing that_. The touch, the smells, the gentle adoration he can feel vibrating from the bard; it’s too much. If Jaskier keeps it up much longer, he’s going to spill in the bath, right in front of the other wolves. And _that_ thought, strangely, does not calm him at all; he feels the throb in his dick _increase_.

“That’s short enough.” He barks, and shifts away from Jaskier, who holds up his hands in surrender. Eskel grips the side of the tub, and ruffles his other hand through his hair. “Nice, it’s better.”

It’s fairly close to ‘thank you’, and Jaskier smiles. “You look dashing, Eskel.”

“We’re to prep dinner tonight, love.” Geralt informs Jaskier, standing. He’s still hard and horny, but so is the bard, and it’s often their default state around one another. They dry off; Geralt more casually, Jaskier thoroughly, shivering in the cool air. Once they leave the room, only Geralt can hear the quicker splashing, and the choked-out sounds of two men reaching a needy, quick climax behind them.

\---------------

All the Witchers are competent cooks, but surprisingly, Lambert is the best. He gripes that it’s because Vesemir punished him too much and he found himself on kitchen duty more than anyone else, but even when it’s someone else’s turn to make dinner, the youngest Witcher will wander through the kitchens, tasting things, adding spices, toying with added vegetables. Geralt gets elbowed out of the way of preparing a slab of beef, and, frustrated, he mutters something about overcrowding and leaves.

Jaskier accepts the kiss on his cheek as his love goes to see the to the table being set, trying to chop carrots and potatoes into cubes without adding his fingers. He’s used to being cooked _for_ , not cooking, but he won’t shirk any duty given to him. “I’m glad you’re here, Lambert.” He says, which gives the other man pause, “I’m an utterly useless chef. Your cooking is always so sumptuous. No lie – I’ve had blander fare at grand royal events.”

Lambert is suddenly very interested in the seasonings he’s grinding together, frowning, trying to shrug the compliment off. But oh, Jaskier persists. “You’re just a natural talent, I suppose. What else do you enjoy doing?”

“Killing things.” Lambert grunts, and the bard grins.

“Well, obviously you’re wonderful at that, too.” He reaches over to squeeze one bicep – which Lambert tenses, and tells himself it’s not because he’s trying to impress the pretty bard. “You’re so _strong_.”

“I like... fighting, too.” The younger Witcher supplies, and Jaskier’s mouth curves into a sweet ‘o’.

“Like, bare-knuckle? Or with weapons?”

“Anything.” Lambert begins to spread the spice-mix over the meat, rubbing it generously into the slab. “Don’t care.”

“Geralt has taught me a lot, but I know all Witchers have their own style. Would you mind terribly... oh, it’s probably a bother. Sorry.” As if shy, Jaskier returns to the vegetables.

Lambert has to tie the meat together, and stoke the flames of the oven hot enough to sear a crust, but damn it – he’s _interested_. After a minute, which he thinks shows appropriate disinterest, he speaks. “Ask your question, bard.”

“Well,” Jaskier trills, “I’d love to wrestle with you, sometime. Hand-to-hand. I want you to teach me your _dirtiest_ tricks.” There’s something so raw in the bard’s tone that Lambert almost drops the kitchen knife he’s holding. He swallows thickly. His shrug is non-committal.

“Yeah.” He agrees, “Maybe later.”

_Fuck, though_. He wants to feel the bard atop him, pinning him down, and—where did _that_ idea come from? Vigorously, Lambert returns to the meat, and Jaskier sprinkles freshly cut herbs over the vegetables. Aside from the bard’s gentle singing beneath his breath, the kitchen is fairly quiet and companionable.

“Next... next time,” The Witcher plucks up the courage, “Next bath. Will you wash my hair too?” In the wake of the question, he wants to tack on a reason, or make a joke, but he doesn’t have time before Jaskier answers.

“Oh, darling. I’d be _delighted_ to!”

\---------------

The tension at the dinner table is so thick that Vesemir piles his plate high, glowers at the pent-up pups and the chaotic bard that is charming them like a nymph, and retreats to his study. Jaskier wants to lavish his attention on _all_ the wolves, and that does include their patriarch. To the dismay of both Eskel and Lambert, who want to bask in the bard’s company – or maybe brush his hand as they reach for food or ‘accidentally’ touch knees beneath the table – Jaskier follows Vesemir’s lead, disappearing to dine with the eldest Witcher.

“Where the fuck did you _find_ him, Geralt?” Lambert asks, once Jaskier is out of earshot. “I want one.”

“He’s not something you can buy in a shop. _Or_ a brothel, Lambert.” Geralt knows where the line of questioning is going. “And actually, he... found me. In an inn. Wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone. Then one day... I don’t know. Felt different. Things changed.” He didn’t want to go into detail there. But he didn’t need to scent the curiosity; it was alive in his brothers’ eyes.

“How did... you know?” Eskel’s question is softer. “I mean, how did you trust him? Why isn’t he scared?”

“As for that, I cannot say.” Fondly, Geralt recalls his first meeting with the bard. No trace of terror then; no trace now. “He’s seen me under the full effects of every elixir, too. Seen me eat raw meat. And do you know what upset him?”

“What?” Both men ask in unison; there’s no point in pretending that they’re not interested.

“Two things. My pants were, and I quote, ‘too last season’. The second thing was...” His golden gaze softens. “When I first got hurt. The idiot pulled out his own dagger to buy me time with a nasty cockatrice. He could have been killed, easily. After the fight I smelt his fear and thought he’d leave, now that he’d seen real battle. But he wasn’t scared of the monster.” Thoughtfully, Geralt spears a roasted potato. “He was scared because I was _hurt._ ”

All of the wolves fell silent. Lambert and Eskel were struggling to comprehend why a human would act in such an irrational way. Why he’d fret over the health of a Witcher. Eskel was the first to voice it. “Why does he care?”

“Because he loves me.” Geralt says, simply. “And I love him.”

“Witchers aren’t built for _love_.” Lambert scoffs. He believes the tales, the things impressed upon all Witchers in their trials. The lie is easier to live with. Eskel, though. He's older. He knows. With a quiet fascination, he searches his best friend’s eyes, and sees the truth there.

“I find him... interesting.” The scarred Witcher offers. It’s a way of saying he’s no longer uncomfortable with the bard. But _trust_ is a different issue. “And I’m glad he makes you happy, Geralt.”

With a hum, Geralt drinks of his wine, and thinks about all the ways Jaskier truly does make him happy.

\---------------

“And _that_ , my dear Vesemir, is why Oxenfurt was called ‘Oxenfart’ for an entire month. Gods, just – don’t ever piss off a determined class of fledgling mages. They’ll go to _extreme_ lengths for revenge.” Jaskier took a sip of wine.

The eldest Witcher chortles, a rare sound, and chews his mouthful. “An entire paddock of cow manure? In the commons?”

“I swear it.” Jaskier holds up a hand. “We had to clean it by hand. Our professors were so angry.”

Shaking his head, Vesemir leans back in his chair, regarding the bard. “You are an entertaining one, bird. But Geralt has never been keen on idle pleasures of the mind.” As if he could see through to his very soul, Jaskier feels the elder man’s eyes upon his own, a meeting of aquamarine in a jeweller’s golden setting. The bard squares his shoulders.

“He hates my songs and my nonsense, Vesemir.” Jaskier confirms, “But that’s okay. They’re not for him. They’re for coin, for our journeys.”

“You pay your way, then?”

“Both of our ways, sometimes.” Jaskier shrugs. “Coin is of little import to me.”

“It’s important to a Witcher.” Vesemir notes, “Essential for them to follow The Path. Coin buys food, and reagents, and shelter.”

“He takes payment. What he is owed, _always_.” The bard’s voice is careful. “I’d not beg him to shirk traditions or his teachings for my sake.”

“So he protects you, you get to sing and see the world. Is that it?” Vesemir picks up his cup, and drinks.

“No,” Jaskier says, “We protect each other. I know he walks The Path, and that I simply follow in his wake. But coin does not buy everything a man needs. Not a man like Geralt.”

“You believe you love him.” The eldest Witcher’s voice is low, almost dangerous. “What if he walks a part of The Path that you cannot follow? What if he wanders out of your reach?”

“Then I wait for him.” There’s no waver in the bard’s voice. “I wait, and I count the days until I feel his arms around me again.”

Vesemir falls silent for a time, before he nods. “Take my plate to the kitchen, would you? I’ve work to do.”

“Thank you for the instructing company, Vesemir. I hope I might join you again one night?”

The patriarch’s smile is faint, but present. “I would like that, Jaskier.”


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt continue to teach the wolves that letting their guard down isn't such a bad thing.

Eskel feels like a dirty voyeur, because that is what he _is._ Crouched cat-like in the shadows before the bathroom, he’s watching a scene so deliciously perverse that his cock is weeping precome in his breeches, and he has to actively work to control his heartbeat and breathing. Truly, he did not mean to spy on his best friend and his mate, but the noises they were making – _fuck._ He’d just _look_ , he’d told himself. Make sure Geralt was okay.

Geralt is more than okay.

Gripping the sides of the tub, the white-haired Witcher is bent over, his lips parted to allow for the low, growling moans that escape him every time Jaskier bottoms out inside his ass. The bard drives forward with a commanding rhythm, stroking fingers down Geralt’s spine. Eskel can hear the whispered words from where he is hidden.

“So _good,_ baby,” Jaskier is purring, “You feel fucking _amazing_. Gods, I’ve wanted you in this tub.” Geralt’s eyes roll back slightly as he begins to shudder, but the bard does not relent. “Look so good for me. How does it feel to get _fucked_ in the place all the wolves bathe, hmm?”

“Jaskier—fuck, _please_ , fuck, _fuck_ ,” Geralt’s chanting is slurred. He tries to rut his hips back, but he’s denied.

“Bet you wish they were here. Eskel and Lambert, _watching you get fucked_.” Jaskier’s croon is predatory, and he punctuates the sentence with a few short, sharp movements, wet skin-on-skin slapping crudely. Both the sentiment and the expert manipulation of his body have Geralt spilling immediately, and his back bows beautifully as he roars with the pleasure of it, a steady pour of his come streaming into the bathwater.

Eskel has been squeezing his cock beneath his clothes the entire time, and the sight is far too much for him to bear. In order to keep quiet, he has to bite down on his free hand, but he joins Geralt in orgasm, flooding his breeches. He comes so hard that some of it drips through the fabric and onto the floor, but he’s too rocked by the sensation to notice. Jaskier’s higher moans of pleasure mingle with Geralt’s whimpers as he pulls the Witcher’s pinkened rear tight to his body, filling his lover. Eskel, throbbing in the aftermath, wonders what it’d feel like to have the bard’s seed slick inside his body, drooling down his legs. He shudders, and steals away, back to his room. Bathing will have to wait until later.

When Jaskier is spent, he collapses back into the tub, which is slightly cloudy with Geralt’s seed and the various oils they’ve used. Panting, he grins at the sight of his love recovering, still bent over. “We may… have to refill the water.” He points out, and Geralt laughs breathily.

“Fine,” He agrees, “But you get out and wrap warm whilst I do it.” Geralt is unbothered by the cold, and the buckets of ice-water, but he won’t risk Jaskier. Luckily, the bard is more than content to bundle in linen and furs as the water is changed. As Geralt works, he pauses, scenting something unusual; his keen eyes dart to the door, to a few droplets spattered on the tile. He scents Eskel, the musk of his arousal and the salt of his come. He was here recently. He _saw_.

The thought makes him shiver, and his half-hard cock thicken again. Jaskier groans at the sight of it good-naturedly, unaware of the discovery Geralt has made. “Love, you’re the sexiest creature that has walked this land, but I’m a mere human. I need at least…” He squeezes himself, “Another ten minutes.”

“Hmm.” Geralt acknowledges, as he empties new water into the tub. He casts the igni sign, checking the temperature after a moment. Jaskier wanders over, sprinkling a little lemon oil into the newly steamy water, because he knows Geralt enjoys the slightest hint of that fragrance. Too much is overpowering for his sensitive nose, but three drops in the huge tub is enough. When they’re settled in the clean water, Geralt sits Jaskier between his legs, and nuzzles into the bard’s chestnut hair.

“I think Eskel is curious.” He muses, after a moment.

“I think they _all_ are, darling.” Jaskier agrees, lazily washing his arms, reclining against his Witcher throne. Geralt does make such a delightful seat.

“He was _watching_ us.” Geralt continues, and smirks when Jaskier turns around, suddenly very interested. He doesn’t question how Geralt knows – Witcher senses – but he does find that the ten minutes he’s requested might be more like five, considering the twitch in his cock.

“Do you think he enjoyed what he saw?” Jaskier’s voice is husky. Geralt kisses along his jaw.

“I _know_ he did.” The Witcher grins, all canine points. Delighted, Jaskier giggles, and tilts his neck to allow his love to continue the path of his mouth, the press of affection on his warm skin.

“Up on the side of the tub.” He pats the edge of the stone basin, and Geralt obeys immediately. “Wouldn’t want to dirty this water, too.”

When Jaskier’s lips slick down his huge length, Geralt thanks every deity in the universe that he can think of – regardless of his lack of faith – that the bard is his. After that, he’s robbed of any coherent thought.

In their rooms, Lambert and Eskel are both quiet, intently listening to the silver-haired Witcher’s moans of bliss.

————–

“Oh, boo.” Jaskier pouts, entering the library, “You’ve taken the best chair.”

Eskel’s brows knit together. “I can move, if…” And he trails off, wondering why he’s making allowances for the bard. He tells himself that it’s because he’s Geralt’s mate, and he cares for Geralt. That is all.

“No, darling, you were here first.” Jaskier selects a tome. “But I _am_ a little chilly. Do you mind…?” He makes a languid gesture at the Witcher, and it takes Eskel a moment to realise what the question is.

_Can I sit in your lap?_

He remembers the way it felt, Jaskier pressed against him in the bath. How nice it was, skin-on-skin. How good the bard smelled; like happiness and something sincere. There is no falseness to the cheerful man. He radiates love and joy and Eskel… he wants to _bask_ in it.

So he raises his shoulders, attempting something non-committal. “If you’d like.” He mumbles, and returns his gaze to his own book. He reads the same sentence over and over as Jaskier perches upon the stronger man’s thighs, getting comfortable, shivering with the sensation of the Witcher’s warmth.

He still smells like the bathwater from the night before. Eskel feels a blush ignite across the bridge of his nose, and hopes the bard won’t notice. With a contented sigh, Jaskier rests his head against Eskel’s chest, and begins to read.

Every muscle in Eskel’s body is rigid. He’s not sure _how_ to cuddle, how he should be acting. He’s seen Jaskier on Geralt’s lap before; his best friend makes it look so easy. But this human – he’s so fragile and soft and his heartbeat is like a butterfly’s wings, a quick flit. Slowly, he tries to copy Geralt’s posture from memory; he slouches slightly to allow Jaskier more room, and curls one large arm around the bard’s waist to steady him. It must be the right thing to do, because Jaskier hums contentedly, and snuggles further into the Witcher.

Eskel feels like he might leap out of his skin. They’re just reading, sat together, but it’s the most intimate thing he’s done in years. And honestly, Jaskier is the only one reading. The Witcher can no longer concentrate. It’s an impossible task. Ever empathetic, Jaskier notices after awhile, and gently closes his own book.

“Geralt never told me how you got your scars.” He speaks, and Eskel feels his relaxing muscles begin to tighten. “And I don’t want to know, unless you ever wish to tell me.”

The second part throws him, and he blinks owlishly at the bard in his lap, who is regarding him with steady eyes; in the lantern-light of the library, they are two sapphires, rare and precious. “Most… people, most people want to hear about the _great battle_ I got them from.” Eskel can’t disguise the hurt and sarcasm in his tone.

“Most people are _rude_.” Jaskier scoffs. “All I wanted to say is that I notice that you won’t look in mirrors. Your hair was getting so long, and you didn’t even have an idea.” His smile is soft, sweet. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, to wear a reminder of something painful on your face, Eskel. But I can tell you that I think you’re brave.”

“What?” Eskel’s question comes out a little harsher than he meant it to, but he’s struggling to comprehend any of the niceness directed at him. “Why?”

“Because you are kind and steady, despite the way the world has treated you. Just like Geralt. The fates have forced you to wear your story, your scars, in such a blatant way – but you haven’t let it ruin you. Who you are. I think that’s brave. And beautiful. Doesn’t matter where they came from.”

Eskel’s throat is dry. He can’t cry, Witchers can’t cry, but he thinks that if he could, he’d tear up. Instead, he just stares at the bard in his lap, all honest and warm. Jaskier smiles again.

“You should uncover your mirror and _forgive_ the man there.” Jaskier offers, “Because he’s suffered enough.” And then, he leans in close; instinctively, Eskel wants to flinch away, but he finds himself spellbound. The bard’s breath is hot against the shell of his ear. “And truly? He’s _sexy as fuck_ , by the _Gods_.”

With a kiss pressed against the dark-haired man’s cheek, Jaskier hops off his lap, and returns the book to where he’d found it. Eskel is hot, swirling with foreign emotion, and _so hard_ that he’s fairly sure the laces of his breeches won’t hold. The bard waves fondly, and then vanishes out the door.

Eskel lets out a breath he’d been holding captive, and shivers. _Open door_ , he remembers. Jaskier and Geralt have an open door.

————–

“My love, have you seen—” Geralt cuts himself off as he turns from the closet, to see Jaskier lounging on the bed in the very shirt he’d been looking for. It is slightly too large for him, of course, given the Witcher’s muscle, but he isn’t wearing it for fashion. He is making a statement: _Geralt is mine_.

The thought makes the Witcher’s blood warm, and his heavy cock throb in interest. Jaskier is able to read him with ease at this point, and he grins all slow, crooking a finger. “C’mere, handsome.”

“We’ll miss breakfast.” Geralt breathes, but he’s walking forward anyway, powerless to resist.

“No we won’t.” Jaskier captures his beloved’s lips in a kiss, all needy passion and soft huffs of wanting breath, licking up the heat of Geralt’s mouth. When he pulls away, the Witcher tries to follow, but Jaskier stops him, pressing a chaste kiss against the cleft of his chin.

“I _wanna_ miss breakfast.” Geralt pouts, and Jaskier laughs, rising from the bed to continue dressing. He pulls on breeches, tucks the oversized shirt in, and lets it hang from one shoulder, exposing the dark hair of his chest and the slope of his clavicle. It’s too long on his arms, so he rolls it up slightly, and ponders over which pair of boots to wear.

When he turns, Geralt’s pupils are enormous, and he’s freed his cock from his pants, lazily stroking as he watches his bard dressed so simply, and yet so provocatively. There’s no louder way that he could announce to the occupants of Kaer Morhen that Geralt is his, and _fuck_ , it’s _such_ a turn-on.

“You’re incorrigible, my gorgeous man.” Jaskier drawls, enjoying the sight.

“You bring it out in me.” Geralt defends, his voice all gritty husk.

“Maybe we can be a _little_ late for breakfast.” The bard agrees. When Geralt lights up in a grin, he pounces.

————–

By the time they make it downstairs, they’re both a little ruffled, but Jaskier smells even more like Geralt. Vesemir isn’t present – he’s wiser than that, by now – but both Eskel and Lambert’s eyes follow the bard’s every movement as he saunters in and settles at the table. He pretends not to notice, of course.

“He’s wearing your clothes,” Lambert blurts out, stating the obvious, “ _Why_ is he—” He catches himself, and addresses Jaskier instead. “Did you run out of clothes, lark?”

“No,” Jaskier says, helping himself to bread and bacon, “I like to smell Geralt on me.”

Eskel drops his knife, and Lambert makes a low sound. Geralt looks smug, lazily spreading butter onto a hot wedge of bread.

“Oh.” Lambert says, but his voice is tight. He’s frowning, trying to work out the _why_ of it all. Eskel is regarding the bard beneath a low flit of eyelashes, but every time Jaskier tries to catch his gaze, he darts it away shyly.

“So,” Jaskier continues, crumbling a piece of bacon, “What’s on the agenda today, lads? Would you like to wrestle, Lambert?”

Eskel chokes on his ale, and Geralt looks amused, thumping his best friend soundly on the back. “ _What?_ ” The dark-haired Witcher barks.

“He offered to teach me what he knows.” Jaskier says, chewing a mouthful of his food.

“Fuck that, Lambert fights like a jealous housewife. _I’ll_ teach you.” Eskel asserts.

“You _sound_ like a jealous housewife. He asked _me_ to teach him.” Lambert argues, and suddenly there are two wolves squaring off over sparring lessons, all bared teeth. Geralt continues to eat, but he looks highly entertained.

“Gentlemen, please!” Jaskier slams a fist on the table with enough authority to get the attention of both men, who are glaring. “You can _both_ teach me. I want to learn… _every_ technique.” There’s innuendo dripping from his words, and nobody at the table can miss it. A drop of honey rolls down the bard’s finger from his bread, and he licks it up with a long, slow stroke.

The two wolves agree to this new plan in almost one voice, transfixed. Geralt takes a swig of ale, and regards his beloved bard with lustful pride. The rest of breakfast passes in relative silence, although both Lambert and Eskel eat much faster than normal.

Jaskier, though. He takes his time.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can winter be so hot? Eskel and Lambert are fast losing reasons not to give in to Jaskier and his charms.

“Lambert!” Eskel's voice is harsh and threaded with worry, “ _Careful!_ ”

Jaskier hits the stone of the sparring ground with a grunt, feeling the impact jolt up his spine. He's breathless for a moment, but then he laughs. Lambert is straddling him, which is a nice enough sensation to warrant the bruises that will litter his back later.

“What?” Lambert snaps, “I was being careful.”

“It's quite alright, Eskel, darling,” Jaskier says, as he pats Lambert's thigh, squeezing it perhaps a bit longer than strictly necessary to let him know that he wants up again, “I am not as fragile as you might expect.”

Eskel still glowers at Lambert, bending and offering his hand to Jaskier, who accepts it. “Lambert's techniques aren't honourable.”

“Oh, and some guy in a bar with half-a-smashed bottle is going to be thinking about a gentleman's code, Eskel?” Lambert retorts, “I'm reaching him how to fight realistically.”

Two large hands shove at his shoulders. Lambert shoves Eskel back, and within moments, they are wrestling with no-holds barred, growling and tumbling against the chilly stone. Jaskier stretches and observes, amused, wandering over to stand beside Geralt, who is sat watching at the steps.

“Is it always like this, my love?” The bard wonders.

“No.” Geralt says, “It's usually much worse.”

Jaskier chuckles, and runs his fingers through the silk slip of his beloved Witcher's hair. Geralt stills under the touch, nearly purring. In front of them, Eskel has his arm locked around Lambert's throat, attempting to get him to yield. He won't.

“Should I tell them that you've already taught me well?” Jaskier wonders, and Geralt smiles.

“No.” He murmurs again, “This is much more entertaining.”

As Jaskier smooths his fingertips down the pale column of Geralt's throat, earning him a low whimper, he watches the other two Witchers disengage and circle one another like the wolves they choose to emulate. He sighs.

“Lambert's weakness is his ribs. Badly healed fracture – perhaps three, four years ago? Eskel, you leave opportunity for overbalancing on occasion.” The bard pipes up. Both Witchers stop, and turn to gawk at the human. He shrugs. “It's easier to see from afar. If you had your swords, though. Gods above, I _fear_ the creature that would stand a shred of a chance against either of you.”

It's praise, even small, and the two of them are disarmed enough to back down from the display of rampant testosterone. Lambert nudges into Eskel on their way over to the steps, but Eskel doesn't rise to it. Jaskier regards them with a steady, accepting warmth.

“Did you... learn anything, at least?” Eskel asks.

“I did, gorgeous,” The word makes the rugged Witcher flush, “Thank you. You and Lambert are so strong and capable. You taught me more about hip control, and Lambert, well.” Jaskier chuckles, “Lambert taught me the importance of object permanence. And sand.”

“Sand's gonna give you a few seconds of advantage, no matter the foe.” Lambert shrugs, “Seconds count.”

“Oh, a man after my heart. You know I _adore_ timing, Lambert.” Jaskier touches the Witcher on his shoulder, and for once Lambert does not even flinch. “Well, I don't know about you lads, but I'm sweaty and dirty and I could use a ba--”

“I'll start filling the tub.” Lambert blurts out, and hops up the steps. Eskel tries to act like he's not similarly enthusiastic, but he lasts mere moments before he's shadowing the other man.

“You are so very wicked, my heart.” Geralt says, smiling into Jaskier's hip.

“You love it, baby.” Jaskier hums, and Geralt shivers, because he truly does.

\--------------

By the time Jaskier and Geralt arrive at the bathroom, four cups and a hefty jug of wine in tow, the tub is full. Eskel casts igni atop the water's surface, and then against the side of the stone basin. The frigid water soon begins to steam.

“What are you feeling, lads?” Jaskier asks, looking over his oils, “Something light, of course... ah, a drop of rosemary.” He taps the single addition to the water. To his human nose, it's hardly there, but all three of the Witchers seem to appreciate the subtle scent.

Lambert and Eskel try to hide their sudden awkwardness by beginning to undress, taking the less important items off first; boots, belts, socks. Jaskier is shameless as ever; he shrugs out of his fur-lined coat, unbuttons his lined doublet, and pulls his undershirt away from his chest. With care, he hangs the clothing up. Geralt mirrors him. Lambert and Eskel stare at the pile of their things cast carelessly on the ground, and contritely also make use of the clothing pegs.

Jaskier is nude first, and eager for the water. He slides into it with an exaggerated groan, letting his eyes flutter closed. Both Eskel and Lambert tense, and flick their gaze to Geralt, who is feigning indifference. It's not possible for either Witcher to hide his erection, but they both hope that the steamy water will sort of disguise their straining excitement. Geralt slips in beside Jaskier, Lambert splashes in gracelessly, and Eskel climbs in last.

“Gods, but I love this bath.” Jaskier says, letting his eyes open, half-lidded. They fixate on Lambert, who is sat across from him. “You must have had some good times in here, hmm?”

All of them – including Geralt – are suddenly very interested in the cleanliness of their fingernails or arms. _Interesting._ Jaskier presses the issue.

“Rarely bring humans up here, of course. And winter is so long. You have needs.” He reaches for a sliver of scentless soap, lathering it. “How often do you fuck one another?”

He already knows the answer – Geralt has told him – but he _loves_ the small chaos that the question causes. Eskel scratches as the scars on his face and Lambert looks out the window at the clouds rolling by.

“Not-- I mean, we... I mean...” Eskel trips over his words, and clears his throat. “Like you said, we have _needs_. S-sometimes we take care of them. Once or twice a winter.” It feels like a confession, Jaskier the priest responsible for absolving the sin of it all. But his face holds no judgement. No; Eskel sees a different expression there, and it makes his heavy cock throb.

“Only that?” Jaskier says, “Gods, how _dull._ ”

“Not all of us have beautiful bards.” Lambert sulks.

“Aw, Lambert!” Jaskier trills, “You think I'm beautiful? That's very sweet.”

Lambert has never been called sweet before, and he has no idea what to do with it. So he just shrugs and fidgets with a scrap of cloth used for scrubbing. He remembers Jaskier agreeing to wash his hair, but he's too nervous to bring it up, now.

“Eskel,” Geralt says, “Lambert hit your shoulder pretty hard out there. Want me to rub it?”

Eskel's pupils constrict for a moment. He trusts Geralt implicitly, and they've tended to countless wounds on each other's bodies before – but this seems different. Not _bad_ different, just... new. He finds himself pricking all over with the eagerness to be touched, and before he can scoff the offer away and say he's not a baby that needs coddling, he nods, and shifts in the tub.

As Geralt pours some oil onto his hand, Jaskier smiles at Lambert. He crooks a finger, spreads his legs, an invitation for the youngest Witcher to come closer. “Shall I wash your hair like I did for Eskel, darling?” He asks.

“Yes.” Lambert blurts, and crawls in the tub towards Jaskier. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, well, turn yourself around – there's a good boy,” Lambert glows hot with the phrase, “And press your back into me. Just relax, okay? Tell me if my fingers are too hard.”

When he feels Jaskier's hands stroke through his short hair, picking any stray leaf-litter or straw from it, Lambert thinks he'll endure a hammer to the skull if it means the bard keeps touching him. He's so warm behind him, and the scratch of his chest-hair is pleasant. Jaskier pours something faintly cedar scented into his hands, and begins to massage Lambert's scalp, humming.

Oh, _hells._ Lambert has never been touched like this. In a soothing, relaxing way, with no real purpose. If Jaskier wanted him clean, he could just scrub him down like a dog, dump water over the suds and be done with it. But he's rubbing circles against Lambert's temples, and dragging his nails down the centre of his scalp, and the young Witcher completely lets himself surrender to it. Jaskier rinses and begins the process over.

Geralt is kneading the sore muscle on Eskel's shoulder with strong fingers, feeling for knots, and once he's satisfied with that, he moves on to the trapezius muscle, up Eskel's neck. That wasn't part of the arrangement, but Eskel is not complaining in the least. He's stifling little noises, leaning further and further into Geralt's touch.

“Does that feel okay?” Geralt whispers, and Eskel's nipples pucker.

“Yes.” He responds, his voice breathy, “Feels good.”

“Good.” Geralt says, and continues to massage. “I'll have to give you a proper rub-down later. So much tension.”

 _That_ promise has Eskel's cock twitching eagerly. He tries to make a noise of agreement, but it comes out as a low moan instead. Lambert might have made fun of him, but he's almost asleep against Jaskier, clean and currently being stroked across the chest.

A slow, sedated thrum of pleasure settles in the air as the men allow themselves to float, both in water and touch. It's so new, so out of place that every now and then one of them will almost snap out of the trance – only to be soothed back down by gentle whispers and caresses. Neither Lambert nor Eskel are aware of how long they exist in that space, but it feels... it feels _amazing_.

“Okay,” Jaskier's voice weaves into the misty spell-space, “I must wash my own hair, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to Lambert's cheek, and the gesture seems so natural that Lambert doesn't even overthink it.

“Can... can I do it for you?” He asks, tilting his head and fixing Jaskier with a pair of dopey, love-struck golden eyes.

Jaskier smiles. “I'd like that.”

“Do you... Geralt,” Eskel murmurs, “Can I wash your hair?”

It's something Jaskier would usually do, and Geralt obediently flicks his gaze to the bard. He's given the smallest nod of permission. “Yes, please, Eskel.”

There's a swish of water as positions are traded. Of course Geralt had been aware of the arousal present in the room – the steam is thick with it – but Jaskier is privy to Lambert's cock thrumming at the small of his back. He says nothing, does not rock cheekily like he wants to, but he's pleased.

Lambert has never washed someone else's hair, but he tries to mimic Jaskier's actions. He selects a bottle, scenting them and finding the one that Jaskier's hair usually smells like. When he begins to work up a lather, Jaskier groans.

“Oh, your fingers are so _strong,_ ” The bard sighs, “Gods be good.”

Lambert trembles bodily, but he keeps working the lather until it needs to be rinsed. He does so with care, avoiding Jaskier's eyes by shielding them with one hand. Then he washes it again, and he's rewarded when the bard whimpers in delight, leaning back into his chest. Lambert's entire body is crackling electric; he's never had a human trust him like this before. Never touched one so aimlessly. He tries not to let his hands shake as he keeps washing.

Geralt, meanwhile, is less subtle than Jaskier. He loves hands in his hair, and by the time Eskel is working through a second scrub, he's shamelessly rocking against the other Witcher, purposefully letting Eskel's dick swipe through the cleft of his arse cheeks. “ _Nngh,_ ” Geralt purrs, “S'good, Eskel.”

Eskel finds himself in a conundrum. He's trying to control his breath, trying not to meet Geralt's hips thrust-for-thrust, but days of teasing have begun to fray his mind. Even though he's rinsed, he doesn't stop touching Geralt. He should, he knows; the washing is over, and now – now they're just _rutting_ like horny schoolboys. But he can't find it in him to care.

He circles Geralt's hips and wraps his hand around the other Witcher's cock, finding him blood-hot and hard. As Geralt moves his hips, he presses tighter into the other man, and fists his dick with an eager stroke. He tries to hide his pleasure into the muscle of Geralt's shoulder, but his moaning increases as the dizzying sensation builds. With a short cry, he comes into the water, his dick flexing in thick throbs between Geralt's cheeks. Geralt groans, low and dirty, and Eskel feels his orgasm against his palm. He rocks into Eskel's grip, twitching as his seed jets into the water, too. Both Witchers ride the unexpected high of it until hypersensitivity nips at them, and then they slump back together, exhausted.

When Eskel's mind begins to clear, he panics. He opens his eyes, expecting to meet disgust or anger on Jaskier's face – but all he sees is hunger and approval. Lambert is staring, too, but he's gone red in the face, and his pupils are completely blown.

“That was _so sexy._ ” Jaskier praises, “Both of you, getting off like that. _Fuck,_ you're both such good, gorgeous boys.”

Lambert makes a strangled sound behind him, and Jaskier feels a rush at his lower back, a pulse from an orgasm of surprise. The bard coos, reaching behind himself, stroking Lambert through it. The Witcher's hips make cute little thrusts as he huffs out his thankful bliss, and then Jaskier finds himself in a tub clouded with Witcher seed, with three dopey, temporarily sated Witchers.

It doesn't matter that Jaskier's cock is neglected, for now. He knows that he could ask Geralt to bring him off – hells, he suspects that he could command Eskel or Lambert at this point – but they're all so lax and gentle that he doesn't want to ruin the moment. Instead, he just smiles.

“I'd say we should rinse off out of the bath,” He says, “But I rather _enjoy_ the fact that I'll smell of all of you for the rest of the day, actually.”

As Jaskier climbs out of the water, all three wolves make a sound of pure, filthy delight.

\--------------

Vesemir had use for Lambert and Eskel after the bath; Lambert is to prepare supper, and Eskel is to fetch wood to stock the fires. Both Witchers almost complain before Vesemir fixes them with a hard stare, and then they simply depart to complete their tasks. Eskel lingers at Jaskier's side, offering him a shy smile. Lambert's hand brushes against the bard's as he walks towards the kitchen.

Geralt has the afternoon free, and after a hurried lunch of the remainder of the morning's bread, dried fruit and sausage, they are quick to disappear to their shared quarters.

“I _knew_ Eskel would be the first.” Jaskier says, closing the door.

“He's hardly approached us,” Geralt points out, “Wolves wank in the bath all the time.”

“That was _not_ wanking in the bath.” Jaskier chuckles, “That was you stroking Eskel until he came in the bath. Which, by the way, was very enjoyable to watch.”

Geralt's cheeks colour a sweet pink. “Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Jaskier begins to strip again, and Geralt watches stupidly, before Jaskier makes a gesture to indicate that he should be doing the same. “I wanted to ask Eskel and Lambert to suck me off at the same time, but I thought that might overwhelm them just a bit.”

“Fuck.” Geralt hisses, roughly jerking his shirt off, “That would be-- I want to watch that.”

“I'm sure you will, darling. You're doing so well at this, aren't you? Just _made_ to be my little slut.”

The Witcher has some difficulty with his trousers, because he's already ragingly hard again. He lets Jaskier's praise crest over him like a warm ocean wave. The bard makes a low sound of approval as his nude lover stands submissively before him.

“I thought it might take a couple of days longer, but you, you _clever_ thing. Rubbing your arse against Eskel like that. Just couldn't help yourself, could you? Did it feel good?” Jaskier's hands roam down the muscle of Geralt's back, and he suffers a full-body shudder.

“Yes,” He admits, “Really good.”

“Why, my love?” Jaskier takes his hand, guiding him to the furs in front of the fireplace.

“Because,” Geralt frowns as he thinks, “B-because I was making Eskel feel good. And,” His voice turns shy, “Because I knew you were _watching._ ”

“Oh, my heart, you'll be the death of me with talk like that. Gods, but you're so _sexy._ All fours, please.”

Geralt hastens to obey, buzzing with the bard's words, and the occasional small touch. He hears the sound of Jaskier undoing his belt, the buttons of his pants popping open. He knows better than to turn and look, and the anticipation makes him blaze, a thin spill of precome dripping onto the rug.

“Face into the fur, love,” Jaskier instructs, “I'm going to bind your hands at your back and fuck you. You may come if you wish, but only from my cock. Do you understand?”

The other man moans, already bowing into the lascivious position, crossing his hands behind him. “Yes.” He whispers.

“And if it's too much?”

“Snow.”

“Good boy.” Jaskier strokes a hand up his spine, and Geralt trembles like a fawn. The scrape of leather around his wrists is expected, and the click of the buckle secures him in place. He hears the slick sound of oil. The bard's fingers smooth against his exposed hole, and for a moment his cock bounces wildly, almost prematurely spending.

“Please,” Geralt begs, “I don't need your fingers, Jask'.”

Jaskier grins, all dark fuckery. “ _That_ relaxed, hmm? Are you sure, baby?”

“Yes.” Geralt makes the kind of whine that Jaskier only ever hears when his Witcher is truly needy. It makes him ache, and he squeezes the base of his own dick. “Please, _please._ ”

“You _let me know_ if you change your mind, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier's voice is commanding, but heavy with desire. Geralt can only nod, and then arch the small of his back as he feels the blunt head of his beloved bard's dick at his entrance, stretching him.

The pain is more of a burn, and Jaskier is slow, but both men are gasping with the feel of it by the time he's hilted. Geralt is eager, rocking backwards, and Jaskier bites out a half-laugh, half-groan. He twists his hand in Geralt's still-damp hair, and begins to ride him dirty, a slow lewd rhythm that becomes slick with oil and sweat, skin slapping skin.

Geralt's hands clench in his bondage, and he jerks with thrill every time Jaskier's curved cock nudges his prostate. The drip of precome is becoming more of a puddle, and he gives himself over to Jaskier's dominion. The bard feels the complete shift, and revels in it, rewarding his Witcher with a faster fuck.

“Good,” He pants, “ _Good boy,_ so good, my heart, _fuck._ You're such a slut for this, I love it so much.”

The Witcher keens and tightens, and Jaskier makes a low noise, all animal. Both of them are close. It's a quick, masterful tryst; there will be time later for something languid and sweet. Just as he feels his climax start to build, the door opens.

Eskel is standing there with firewood. He has been tasked, after all, with restocking all the rooms. And Jaskier has _impressed_ his open door policy. Still, the sight he's presented with almost makes him drop the chopped logs on the ground. Wide-eyed, he starts to take a step back.

“Stay.” Jaskier commands, his voice a growl, “Stay and _watch me_ make him come all over himself.”

It feels like all the blood in his body shoots straight to Eskel's cock. He can't say no to Jaskier; he's transfixed. He moves only to drop the wood, and even then his eyes don't flee from the scene. Jaskier licks his lips, locks his eyes with Eskel's, and tugs Geralt's hair.

“You hear that, baby? Eskel's watching me fuck you. He can see how messy you are already.” The bard's voice is a gravel-scratch, a brush of charcoal on parchment. “He knows you're a whore, now.”

Geralt stiffens beneath him, and then bucks wildly, crying out mindlessly. His dick jerks in a rage, laying down an absolute flood of come as he loses all control. Jaskier bites off a curse, his fingers digging into the flesh of Geralt's rear as he finally climaxes too, spending hard and long within his beloved. He rides out the aftershocks with glee, teasing the drooling ring of Geralt's stretched muscle with his cockhead. When he finally pulls out, he also releases the buckle, allowing Geralt to flop onto his side, narrowly avoiding the generous puddle of his own come.

Jaskier sits back on his heels, reddened dick still twitching. He looks over at Eskel again, who will be needing to change his pants, judging by the dark smear of precome on the crotch. The Witcher is slack-jawed, his expression soft and reverent, as though he's just witnessed something divine.

“Was that okay, my heart?” Jaskier checks in on Geralt, who is reeling. He nods, still getting his bearings. And then he turns his clear blue gaze to Eskel. “And did _you_ enjoy, darling?”

Eskel's throat is dry, but he bobs his head in a nod. “Y-yes.” He rasps, processing. After a moment, he gathers all his courage, and forces out a question before he loses the nerve and flees. “Can... can I do that? Tonight? Will he-- can I--?”

Jaskier strokes Geralt's leg, and licks his lips. “Oh, Eskel, dearest. We thought you'd _never_ ask.”


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes is time and patience to tame the wolves, and Jaskier has both in spades.

Dinner is an incredibly tense affair.

Vesemir can sense the electricity tingling in the air, and doesn’t so much as bother to take a seat. He plates his food and heads back to his study. Jaskier feels a pang of guilt and vows to spend more time with the man, making himself useful; there are vials to be cleaned, and shelves to be dusted, and the bard suspects the old wolf actually likes company more than he lets on.

But tonight belongs to him. Him and three pups, eager, fidgety with their meal. Eskel keeps glancing at Geralt, who steals the occasional stare in return. Every single time, both men flush and return to eating. Lambert is not stupid; he picks up on this strange transaction about five minutes after they’ve all sat down.

“Why are you looking at Eskel like a bride on her wedding night?” Lambert asks Geralt, nudging him under the table. Geralt grunts in reply, and colours an even sweeter pink that Jaskier admires for a moment.

“He’s not.” Eskel blurts out, and then gives himself away by scratching at the scars on his face. “It’s, uh, it’s...”

Jaskier sees no point in keeping secrets from Lambert. “Eskel wishes to come back to mine and Geralt’s room, after supper.” He says, tearing a piece of bread apart.

“Oh.” Lambert clears his throat, and drinks deeply of the wine in front of him. Suddenly, he’s the one wearing a blush. When he doesn’t say anything further, Jaskier gently prompts.

“We love the company. Open door, as I’ve said. If you would like, Lambert, you’re more than welcome to join—”

“Yes.” The youngest Witcher accepts, before Jaskier can finish. “I mean, yeah. I’ll... come, too.”

“Yes, you will.” Jaskier smirks, all promise in his seaside eyes, and then Lambert truly flushes right down to the tips of his toes in his boots.

They had been nudging their food around, picking, but there’s a sudden rush amongst the three wolves to finish. Jaskier watches, amused, and keeps up his steady pace. He compliments Lambert’s cooking, he sips the wine, and he helps himself to more green beans as if he doesn’t have three huge men hawkishly watching his every movement. They’re anxious to leave the table, but too shy to initiate the shift.

Finally, the bard wipes his mouth, and places the napkin down. “Right, shall we—”

He almost laughs when the trio of Witchers stand at the same time, grabbing up Jaskier’s empty plate along with their own to take back to the kitchen. Vesemir would not approve of them leaving dirty dishes, and although they are wanting, they don’t disrespect the patriarch. For once, nobody is complaining about cleaning; they work together in efficient silence. Jaskier picks up a bottle of strawberry-infused vodka from one of the storage cupboards. He heads upstairs first, leaving the others to finish their task.

Once in the bedroom, Jaskier sets about making things comfortable. He stokes the fire hotter and makes sure there is wood nearby to burn. He lights candles – mostly for his benefit, considering all three Witchers have excellent low-light vision. He goes through his collection of oils and selects his preferred blends. Then he opens a bag and withdraws three of Geralt’s favourite toys; a fine leather collar with a heavy-duty ring, a leash made of reinforced velvet, and a simple metal bangle. These he places by the furs in front of the fire.

The room has warmed sufficiently for him to shed his coat and his doublet. He knows that downstairs they’d have finished cleaning by now. Geralt trusts him implicitly – and he _wants_ this – but out of solidarity, he’s probably lingering with Eskel and Lambert. It’s possible he’s not sure exactly how to invite them closer. And so Jaskier gives them an easy opportunity.

“Darlings,” He calls down the stairs, “Bring a cup each, and one for me, would you? I remembered the drink, but not the vessels, silly me.”

It works a treat. In moments, they file into the room; Geralt first, pausing to kiss Jaskier, and then Eskel. Lambert hesitates at the threshold, but he has Jaskier’s cup, so he steps in, too. Geralt is pulling off his coat and boots, but Eskel and Lambert are standing a wary distance away.

“You’ll be too hot in a moment,” Jaskier says, settling down in front of the fire, “Pop your coats on the dresser, if you like. And—ooh, thank you for bringing my cup, Lambert.”

The younger Witcher stares at the object in his hand, and then shuffles over to the waiting bard, who accepts it with a charming grin. The vodka is uncorked, and Jaskier, ever the host, reaches up to pour into Lambert’s cup before his own. He’s soon joined by Geralt, who sits in breeches and under-shirt cross-legged. Eskel feels relaxed by Jaskier’s casual attitude, as if this is the most normal thing in the world to be doing – and by the promise of hard liquor. He removes his coat, offers to take Lambert’s boots, too, and soon they are all partaking of the sweet, potent alcohol.

“Easy, Jaskier,” Eskel laughs, when the bard makes a face upon sipping it, “Witchers distil their drink a bit different to humans.”

“I’ll say, gorgeous,” Jaskier coughs, squinting at the drink, “Gods _above_. You could strip a house of paint with this stuff.”

The nickname has Eskel all shy, but Lambert chortles, throwing back his shot as if it were water. “Our metabolism doesn’t make us good wine or ale drunks, little lark. We make it strong. Or we resort to black seagull.”

All three Witchers groan, clearly recalling the last time they partook of the potent potion. Jaskier is vaguely aware it’s one of the things that will kill him if he so much as takes a drop of it, but he grins. “And when was the last time you resorted to this concoction? I would like stories from all of you, please.”

They spend the next hour trading tales, sipping enough of the liquor to relax and warm them – but not enough for deep intoxication. Jaskier is careful. He does learn, however, that Eskel once hallucinated a beautiful maiden and had passionate sex with a couch (that has since been used for kindling after the incident); Lambert drank black seagull on a dare and was found terrified halfway up a pine tree the next day by a very disgruntled Vesemir; Geralt experimented some winters ago by mixing it with another elixir and spent a solid eight hours vomiting and sobbing in the bath-house.

The bard is breathless with laughter by the time they are all done trying to one-up each other, but the Witchers are chuckling too, jostling shoulders, amused by memories. Jaskier enjoys the sight of it; the way they’ve relaxed into one another, even in this more intimate setting. Geralt has a hand on Eskel’s thigh, and the other man hasn’t sought to remove it. In fact, Jaskier can’t place when that happened, because everything just feels so natural and warm.

“And what of you, Jaskier?” Eskel asks, as Lambert shimmies closer, his leg touching Geralt’s, “What’s the worst you’ve been afflicted?”

“Oh, Gods.” Jaskier stretches, and pretends not to notice the way all three men follow the lines of his body. “Which story to pick?” That earns him a snort from Geralt. “Well, back when I was studying at Oxenfurt, one of my friends secured a couple of flasks of schnapps. Cheap, awful stuff. We were not yet sixteen, but we thought ourselves quite mature and able to handle ourselves, thank you very much. He and I drank in the library. It was all fine and fun until the alcohol actually hit us.”

Lambert leans a little closer, and absently, Jaskier begins stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. The man shivers, but does not move away. “What then?” He whispers, his eyes half-lidded.

“Well, my friend – blasted rat he was, always lucky – he somehow charmed his way into bed with another student, and left me in the library. My memory is hazy after that, but I recall being found by a couple of last-year lads. To their credit, they _did_ help me back to my room, but unfortunately, I awoke the next day with a rather large love-heart shaved into my chest hair. Oh, and my first hangover.”

Eskel and Lambert chortle. Geralt has heard the story, but smiles.

“They could have shaved it all off, though.” Eskel points out.

“Would have been a nicer fate, I imagine.” Jaskier grins, “Communal bathing, you see. Explaining the heart was not easy, and I did not hear the end of it for _months_.”

“How big was it?” Geralt drawls, and Jaskier sighs. He pulls his undershirt off completely.

“This chest hair came in early, lads. It went from here,” The bard traces carefully around his nipples, “All the way down to here.” The point ends just below his navel.

Eskel and Lambert have gone silent, raking the imaginary line with their golden gaze. Jaskier removes his hand from Lambert’s hair – ignoring the man’s soft whine – and grips the hem of Geralt’s shirt. Seeking his Witcher’s permission with a tilt of his head, he pulls the fabric up.

“Sometimes when I’m nostalgic for those days,” Jaskier whispers, “I recreate it on Geralt. Like this.” He places his mouth above Geralt’s right nipple, and suckles the skin there. The Witcher sighs at the feeling, and Jaskier releases him, revealing the reddened love-bite.

Both Eskel and Lambert are hard in their breeches, staring. They aren’t alone in their arousal; Geralt is already squirming, and Jaskier’s own dick can’t possibly be expected to stay unresponsive in the situation.

“It takes me awhile, alone.” The bard fixes the weight of his lustful spring-lake eyes on the two fully clothed Witchers. “Perhaps you’d help?”

Eskel swallows thickly, shoots Geralt a glance. The white Witcher smells of pure, intoxicating arousal. He makes the smallest nod at his fellow wolf. Jaskier watches, delighted, as Eskel shifts where he’s sitting to place his mouth above Geralt’s left nipple, to make an identical mark. He’s rewarded with a whimper.

The sound motivates Lambert, who begins his trail where Jaskier left off. The bard bites his lower lip as the two men lave his lover with attention, the wet sounds of their lips and the soft _pop_ as they release the marked skin such a sweet symphony. Geralt begins to moan, one hand on each wolf, fingers tangled in undershirts. He lets his head roll back as they leave their bites, compliant under their mouthing. When they reach below his navel to complete the point of the heart, Lambert’s lips find Eskel’s, and they trade a brief, besotted kiss. When they part, there’s a new light in their eyes as the beginning of acceptance and adoration kindles within each of them.

“That was so lovely to watch, my strong wolves,” Jaskier praises. He’s leaning back, blatantly palming his cock through his breeches. “Eskel, darling. You said you’d like to try fucking Geralt. Do you still wish to?”

Jaskier’s overt language makes the Witcher fluster, but he can’t deny his desires. Hesitantly, he nods. Jaskier makes a sound like a purr, and gets up, trailing his hands across Geralt’s shoulders. The large man leans into the simple touch.

“You look—you look _good_ , like that.” Lambert says, eyeing the marks they’ve made on Geralt.

“Doesn’t he, just?” Jaskier agrees, picking up the collar. He pads back over to the group, and sits down. When Geralt lays his eyes on the item, he visibly shifts his posture, bowing his head, placing both his hands palms-up. Submitting. It’s obvious Eskel and Lambert don’t understand the dynamic – a wolf, obedient for a collar – but Jaskier is quick to explain.

“Geralt likes to be beneath my instruction,” He says, as he fastens the collar with care, “He takes pleasure in being used for pleasure. He trusts me not to hurt him, or treat his body unkindly. Stand up, my love – trousers off, please.”

Geralt moves to obey. Eskel and Lambert trade a glance, and then focus on Jaskier. He’s slicking a bangle with a bit of oil, before he slides it over Geralt’s impressive cock, right to the base. It fits very snugly, but the Witcher seems to like it.

“What’s... that?” Eskel asks, too curious for caution.

“A cock ring. It’s made for his size. Geralt can be rather... hmm, what would you say, my love? _Enthusiastic_ , when he’s submitting. This controls his orgasms a little better.” Jaskier smiles. “It doesn’t hurt. I am rather curious to find out if all Witchers are as responsive.”

Even though Geralt is being spoken of like a prized pony, neither Lambert nor Eskel can smell anything but lust and adoration rolling off his skin. Jaskier clips a lead to the collar, and tugs. Geralt kneels again.

Lambert curses under his breath, because Geralt’s expression is so erotic; he’s flushed, dotted with bruising nibbles, and completely compliant. This is further demonstrated when the bard coaxes him forward, onto his hands and knees.

Eskel feels similarly flustered; he’s pawing his shirt off, because it’s too warm. Lambert unlaces his breeches in an effort to give his cock some relief from the strain. Jaskier whispers soft encouragements to Geralt, who basks in them.

“If he’s overwhelmed or unhappy, he will say ‘snow’. If he does, you are both to stop what you are doing immediately. If he can’t speak, I will speak for him. Is that clear?” Jaskier’s voice is warm, but there’s a hard edge that was not there before. It’s obvious that Geralt’s wellbeing comes first, and that is something both Eskel and Lambert are ready to agree to.

“If Eskel is... fucking him.” Lambert curls his toes, “Am I... can I take his mouth?”

“Would you like that, love? You want to suck Lambert’s pretty cock?” Jaskier asks, gently tugging at the leash. Geralt makes the most lascivious sound, and nods. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” Geralt rasps, “I would like to suck Lambert’s cock, please.”

Hearing the words from their fellow wolf’s mouth is almost too much for the other two, and Jaskier feels a dark, dirty thrill when Lambert grips his cock hard, and Eskel visibly throbs.

“Fuck.” Lambert hisses.

“Quite.” Jaskier agrees, all ivory smile. He picks up a small bottle, and coats his hand. Then he trails it down between Geralt’s cheeks, and they all watch the prostrating Witcher shiver. He begins with two fingers, slipping them slowly into the white wolf’s arse, and Geralt keens.

“ _Good_ boy.” Jaskier encourages, “Look at you, so eager to please. Will you make Eskel feel good, hmm? Want him to come inside you, fill you up all hot?”

Geralt’s mouth slackens, and Eskel makes a throaty growl. He almost tears his breeches in his haste to be rid of them. “Words,” Eskel prompts, copying Jaskier, “Tell me, Geralt, and I’ll do it.”

“Fuck me.” Geralt moans, as Jaskier adds a third finger, “Jask’, please, I’m—I’m ready, I wa- _want_ —”

“Okay, my heart, shh. You’re doing so well.” The bard slips his hand free, and motions for Eskel. The man moves behind Geralt, and Jaskier takes his time slicking Eskel’s cock liberally. “Eskel is thicker and stronger than me, love. I need you to say your word if it’s too much, okay?”

“Yes,” Geralt begs, “Yes, promise. _Please_.”

“Go slow.” Jaskier warns Eskel with his eyes, and the Witcher has to tamp down the urge to fuck wildly into Geralt – especially when he presses his dick against the other man’s hot, eager hole. Eskel tenses up as he gently rocks into the tight heat before him, fighting the animal that demands to breed Geralt like a bitch. Slowly, gently. He’s rewarded by Geralt’s soft grunts of pleasure, and he scents no distress.

Lambert is squeezing the base of his dick, watching the scene play out before him with blown-out pupils, hungry. Jaskier waits until Eskel has sheathed himself completely within Geralt – both men moaning with the sensation of it – until he beckons Lambert closer.

“Do you still want...?” Lambert cards his hand through the softness of Geralt’s hair, “Is this okay?”

Geralt responds by opening his lips in invitation, tongue curled. The look in his eyes can only be described as _desperate_ , and Lambert’s breath hitches. Hesitantly, he offers himself. Geralt’s mouth is wet and slick and _fuck_ , he has obliterated his gag reflex like a seasoned whore, and Lambert arches the small of his back as he’s swallowed nearly to the root of his prick.

Jaskier takes a moment to drink it all in; his beloved, servicing two wolves, already hazy-eyed from submission and desire. He tugs his own cock free of his breeches, and looks at the two huge men who seem to be awaiting his direction. Rightfully so.

The bard has tamed them all.

“Fuck him.” He urges, “Make him feel _good_. I’d like to watch, darlings.”

Eskel withdraws, and then rolls his hips forward, seeking to set a pace that is agreeable to Geralt. He shudders bodily, rocking slowly. As he does, Geralt draws his spit-slick lips up and down Lambert’s cock.

“Fuck,” Eskel hisses, “Oh, fuck, Jaskier... he’s _already_...”

“Clenching and fluttering? Mmm, enjoy it for awhile, and then move the bangle forward a little bit. Let him come.” Jaskier says, ignoring the throb of his own dick.

“I don’t—I don’t know if—fuck, _fuck,_ if _he_ comes, I’ll—” Eskel’s handsome features scrunch up, and then he can’t hold; the situation, the days leading up to the moment, Geralt’s moaning around Lambert’s cock. It’s too much. He pulls Geralt tight to his body, fumbling to adjust the ring, and the first pulse of a powerful orgasm rocks through him.

Jaskier watches Geralt’s eyes flutter shut as he drools around Lambert, pricking with heat as Eskel grunts and twitches, filling him. As soon as he’s released from the simple restraint, Geralt comes in a messy rush on the rug beneath him, striping the fur with thick seed. Lambert’s hips give a weak stutter, and then he joins them, vocal as Geralt sucks the spend from him, swallowing.

It’s the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen, and it takes all of his control not to stroke himself to the sight. He’s not blessed with Witcher stamina. So he simply enjoys the tableaux of the three wolves, reduced to quivering wrecks, and licks his lips.

When Eskel is drained, he withdraws, sitting back on his heels in a daze. He pants, watching his own load drip down Geralt’s balls. Lambert pulls out of Geralt’s mouth soon after, his reddened dick twitching with aftershocks. Geralt stays in position, glossy-eyed and glowy.

“So gorgeous.” Jaskier purrs, “ _All of you,_ by Gods. You clever, glorious things. Look at how happy you’ve made my man.” He reaches over to stroke Geralt’s cheek, who nuzzles into the touch.

“Again?” The white wolf asks, and Jaskier laughs.

“Ah, I told you he was needy, darlings.” The bard glances at both Eskel and Lambert, gauging their mental state. Both of them are flushed, but he can see the naked desire in their expressions. Shame has been chased away. They are all together in that precious moment.

“Can I fuck him?” Lambert pipes up, and Jaskier can only feel thrilled at how they are learning to vocalise their desires.

“Ask him, darling.”

“Geralt, do you...” Lambert frowns, and rephrases, remembering how Jaskier’s words affected the Witcher. “I want to fuck you, _hard_.” Geralt moans, and it spurs him on. “I want to ride you, smack that pretty arse, have you begging for my spend. You want that?”

Geralt makes a garbled noise, and Jaskier moves forward to slip the bangle back up. He chuckles, aware of exactly how much Geralt _does_ want it. But he needs to say it himself.

“Yes,” Geralt croaks, “ _Please_ , Lambert. Fuck me. Spank me.”

Lambert needs no further encouragement. Swapping places with Eskel, he lines his cock up, feeling the warmth of Eskel’s seed against his skin and thrilling at the lewdness of it. When he takes Geralt, his first stroke is easy, but after that, he does as he promised. A heavy hand comes down, the slap of sweaty flesh loud, and Geralt moans sluttily, shifting forward. Lambert takes advantage of the movement to press him down into the furs, tangling his hand in the snow of Geralt’s hair. He fucks him with powerful, quick thrusts, and both men quickly become frantic with it.

“You like that?” Lambert growls, “Taking my cock like a bitch in heat, _fuck_.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Geralt whines, “More, _please_ , fuck me!”

Lambert bares his teeth in a snarl and picks up his pacing, rutting like an animal, pressing Geralt further and further into the rug. Eskel slinks beside Jaskier to watch, and the bard casually wraps his hand around Eskel’s dick, using the remnants of the oil to stroke him. His thanks comes in the form of a moan as Eskel raises his pelvis in time to the bard’s fisting.

“You want Eskel to come on you, heart?” Jaskier croons, “Wanna feel his load on your skin, too?”

Geralt’s eyes flutter again, and Jaskier moves to release the bangle. Lambert can’t resist the hot clench of Geralt’s muscles as he comes and _comes_ into the fur, his lips parted in an obscene ‘o’, his howling sharp. He spills, too, pressed tightly skin-to-skin as he supports his weight on his hands, his dick flexing thickly as he floods the submissive plaything beneath him. Lambert’s grunts of pleasure go straight to Eskel’s dick, as does the sight of Geralt tensing and coating his own chest, and it only takes Jaskier a few more practiced strokes before he’s flung into his second orgasm, too. Messily he squirts along Geralt’s abdomen, directed by the bard’s clever hand. He shudders and rubs into Jaskier’s side, his ecstasy prolonged by an accepting, cuddling touch.

It takes longer for the trio to calm, this time, but the tempest passes. When Lambert withdraws, he sits flat on his bum, utterly had. Jaskier kisses Eskel’s sweaty temple, and reaches over to undo Geralt’s collar, casting the toys aside.

“How are you feeling, love?” He asks Geralt, who answers in a broken whine. “You’re all done, my man. You should see how _lovely_ you look, Gods. Absolutely perfect.”

“I did okay?” Geralt whispers.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lambert has his breath back, “Fuck, that was... um. _Really_ good.”

“Yeah,” Eskel agrees, “Haven’t come that hard since... fuck, ever?”

Jaskier beams. “I think it’s safe to say you did very well, my heart.”

With that confirmation, Geralt feels safe enough to collapse on his side with a blissful huff. Jaskier smiles fondly, reaching for a skin of water. He has Geralt drink first, and then he passes it around.

“What of you?” Eskel asks, noting Jaskier’s arousal, “You didn’t, uh. Finish.”

“Indeed I did not.” Jaskier peeks down, as if only just now becoming aware of his erection. “What a conundrum.”

“I could... help.” Lambert offers, suddenly shy.

“Or me.” Eskel doesn’t even scratch at his scars.

Jaskier examines them both, lounging like a lord. “Well, you did so well making that heart for Geralt together. I imagine _both_ of you have lovely mouths, hm?”

Lambert and Eskel barely have to exchange a glance before they’re bending, lavishing Jaskier’s cock with attention. The bard moans freely, delighting as they slip tongues in trade up and down his blood-hot skin. With the way Lambert is fondling his balls, and Eskel is kittenishly sucking the ridge of his cockhead, he knows he won’t last.

“Gods, but you’re both so good.” He sighs, stroking them where he can reach. They make little sounds of delight. “Fuck, I’m close, darlings.”

When Jaskier comes, he meets Geralt’s eyes. They are dark with the fuckery of it, and the smirk that plays on his lips only makes the bard’s orgasm all the sweeter. Lambert and Eskel switch at his streaming tip, each eager to taste his come. He’s panting and sensitive by the time they have laved him clean, dizzy with the intensity of the experience.

When they sit back, he luxuriates in the afterglow, knowing there are three pairs of golden eyes watching him. Three sated wolves. Loved and wanted under his dominion. Truly cherished for the first time in their lives.

“My darlings,” He drawls, “Oh, what a winter this will be.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this smutty series! It was fun.
> 
> Don't worry, Vesemir will make them wash the rug.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at @inber. I post drabble and general stupids there.


End file.
